Best Simpletons Poems
POETRY SOUP IS GARBAGE
why did i subscribe to this nonsense?
read the terms and conditions
no foul language, nor innuendos
FFS...can we not be adults?
can we not express our true selves?
No, we gotta cater to the weak minds
the forever-effing-blind
keep pushin' that purity nonsense
so we can all stay in-line
ignore truth, ignore dissent
keep the simpletons happy
bury our burdens with a fake smile
for utmost accessibility
Everybody bears a price tag
Claim tycoons with bottomless purses
With a plethora of dollars to flash and flag
About to entice simpletons who deem their lives struck by curses
Inserted in their DNA
Generations ago
Which render them incapable to shove away
Bets of cash their stricken spines can’t forgo
While stomachs groan and lips
Demand smartphones, mascaras and lipsticks
Deployed to slay chaps with wanton whips
That cut and slice with savage kicks
On pates gone wan with insomnia
As limousine driven juggernauts
Splurge huge wads of notes to catalyze mass hysteria
Among street corner astronauts
Whose flight to Cupid exoplanet
Fell on its face
As moral worth net
They chose to suppress
In the face of perennial penury
That nibbles homesteads bereft of meals
In January
When cash overloaded sovereigns strike asymmetric deals
In which they beat down the cashless
Unless the poor rebuff cash offers
Preferring the famine and thirst the voiceless
Endure twenty four seven cos their coffers
Cash they’ve never seen
Cos fate shifted the balance of resources in favour of the few
Who more often than not turn out mean
To taunt the poor who shift on a church pew
As a tycoon blurts, ‘There’s a price tag on you
The sooner you acknowledge the reality
The better your world will enliven anew
As on you my bucks bestow and restore dignity in humility.’
Crowds and noise and people enthralled me
When I had deciduous teeth.
And a simple thought of loneliness
Engendered collywobbles in me.
How amicable people look when viewed with jejune eyes!
Blanketing all kinds under pristine
and untarnished label
Without contemplations and with profound celebrations,
Labelling the sweeter tongues 'good'
And tactless simpletons 'deride'.
Perhaps it was the age of innocence!
It afflicted my eyes with myopia
Hindering my childish wisdom for masques
As one after another, the deciduous white pearls fell
They did shake my bygone edifice of sagacity
With each new rise, my style of mastication changed
Sometimes to the left
Sometimes to the right
My food could not be chewed with stability
Sometimes the hollowness after the fallen tooth engendered agony
And in the artless custom of childhood, I believed all......
Then with time, the new convictions came
Enamels with more glint and rock-like firmness
With age, it pondered and with 'relations' it was illustrative
'That people are not always they appear!!'
'Their words are not always what they sounded!!'
But by that age, I was one of them
Deceptive in deed and sardonic in words
Perhaps it was the stage of Adulthood!!
"I wandered lonely as a cloud" -- William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a life
bereft of joy by reason’s cloud
to sling invective like a scythe
from perched on high, lofty and proud.
Naught from my lips but bile and scorn,
delight extinguished, long since shorn.
Imprisoned by my intellect,
I held my neighbor in disdain,
the simpletons who genuflect,
lift voice in praise to gods inane.
Devoid of purpose, meaningless,
inflicting pain, I caused distress.
Ensconced in fog, truth thus eludes,
for nothing blinds like one’s own will,
prolongs the moral turpitude,
bolstering self yet further still.
The darkness bears an evil grin,
a putrid corpse, lest dawn breaks in.
But worlds come crashing down, of course.
A penetrating shaft of light
that sears at first, causes remorse,
illumines one’s desperate plight.
A warmth then flushes on the face
by blood reborn, restored by grace.
----------
for the I Wandered Lonely as --- Challenge Poetry Contest
sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
written on 09/18/2022
The fuel, fury and addiction,
stupendous depiction.
I’m magnetized; my nose buried
in vellum sheets. Varied,
the construct of complicated
simpletons located
on cliffs, near harbors, with their ghosts;
misdirecting guideposts.
The injection of crafty twists;
flying ink insists
you sink deeper into its thick.
The turn of pages, a joystick.
Wanting to finish the story;
feeling’s transitory.
Compose a series, Author, please!
Your book ended with tease.
I’ll have eyes on antagonist,
tea with protagonist,
follow breadcrumbs and red herring,
and choose to be daring.
T h e E n d
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting
gray chill in the air.
I meander
ever
so
slowly
past lawns
strewn
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
staring blankly,
as I obliterate pint-sized
snow angels
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with
da Vinci's golden teardrops.
(Impoverished attention-getters)
"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"
(Simpletons)
Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.
My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
Bleak…frozen…
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –
sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.
Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes
so
much
dead.
(So be it)
They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)
These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,
bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."
(Wasteful)
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.
My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -
pour myself a
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -
scarf down a fudgcicle
and just...
turn the air conditioner
ON.
Do not tell me anymore of mythical mermaids lurking
In the fine gradient of the sea, eyes heavy with a snaring desire,
A monalisa smile framed on their faces or of
Sexy mermen and smiling salacious simpletons
To stereotype the smile mystery of the swahili of diani;
Their courtesy charms me like their taarab in the moonlight;
Their light-skinned women with lessos wrapped around
Their hips, flowery with petals like butterflies, carrying messages
Emblazoned in rich swahili proverbs and poetry, or in pitch-black buibui,
Silvery silk hijabs on their heads, the all encircled face radiant like sunlight,
Their disarming ubiquitous smile, proud seeming and confident
With their polite dialect even felt in the soft tread of their feet...
Swahili women do not just smile to strangers, they greet them too:
''Here we neither buy nor sell salamu, we give it for free!'' one elderly
Woman in msambweni tells me one day when I pass by, stone-faced,
A typical bara man demeanor with courtesy only reserved
For the familiar face. I feel the surge of culture shock creeping
Into my conscience, a creepy confusion like in a stormy sea;
A reflection of a sojourners new baptism. I bowed my crest-fallen face and said,
''Shikamoo mama'' she answers ''marahaba mwanangu.'' I was amused and
Warmed up by the sustained, sweet matrix of her mouth.
Their henna art is spell-binding too. Breath-taking. A love of femininity,
Seem they have all the time in the world to spruce up, to be women:
Smart, sexy, sassy, their feline grace unlocking the manacles of man;
They know their place in this man world, an aura of a social panache,
A tapestry touch of a culture that soothes the soul, a kind of social philosophy-
A humble humanity born of the light of love with life
Like fish in their natural element.Their laughter lacerate the sea,
Make marks on the beach sands, build dreams in the fine gradient
Of the waves, hearts entrenched in the soul of the sea.
"Tour of Duty"
go forth and conquer
go forth and multiply
we are taught like
good little madams,
it’s fed to us right
(not left) from the get go
down our throats,
it’s ingrained
in the majority of us,
then, rank and file,
off we go, deligently
we march towards
that evocative thing promised,
Love calls us keenly,
Love calls us softly,
Love like communion,
green gardens wild daisies
crowns worn like halos,
loves me, loves me not,
loves me not, loves me,
planted and naively bedded,
we dance that dance,
into the seductive arms
of faith and chance, a wanton war
romancing our womanhood,
we roll over like puppies
our upturned faces
and stomachs stroked,
being fed red apples
like simpletons in a
moist ripe bed of roses,
sprinkled with the holy water
of keeping the win for keepsakes
framed and parked on a wall
like stag horns, momentos
of a past well worn,
our competitive
strip poker smiling faces
the blue ribbons adorned
and mounted like
miss congeniality,
good girls
wagging tails,
then feeding
children spoonfuls
of honey,
to do it all
over again
obedience
only lasts so
long
so long
tours of duties
so long
good girls
take notes
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Alcohol is a beautiful demon,
be careful to only kiss her lightly.
Or you will see her true face after she owns you.
It is fun, adventurous, life affirming,
and recommended to flirt with a demon.
But do not be afraid of pain,
accept it, as a consequence of what she shows you.
She can show you a deeper perception of yourself,
with no inhibitions and fears.
She can tear your small world apart, in one night,
So much to teach, the beauty of loss.
She can be an artists best friend,
to peer into the void of reality, and express more truth.
Forget what the simpletons say,
to avoid her completely, they are not awake.
Drink for inspiration, drink for honesty,
drink to let go of inhibitions, from living your life.
But never drink to hide from the pain, to relax, to avoid or not feel.
She owns you then,
your lust, avoidance of pain,
you have made love to a demon,
and your soul is cursed,
or is it blessed? The beautiful suffering all come at once,
the day you quit, to teach you of
love and truth.
A barrage of information, an overload of stimulation,
cant get to work, or take care of the family.
Know that truth doesnt care about reality,
it is only an illusion,
it only cares to teach you, to make your soul one of love,
to care for others, more than your self,
or confront your own fear of pain.
Pain is the teacher we all avoid,
no fear of her,
makes us the artist, the immortal,
the teacher of future generations,
a life worthy of existence, of Gods love.
Our death is beautiful as it wakes up our art, and shows our value,
that we were too shameful to live or feel.
If we saw ourself for what we were,
we would become our greatest dream,
that we are too wounded to remember.
"The Looped Vision of Futures"
The loop plays non-stop
the needle steps out of time
into the groove of you and me
all of us played for time we are their revelry
hockey pucks struck by
the quiet hidden demons
smiling and licking their lips
already tasting our souls on a vicious ice field
lives matter no matter the colour of political greed
time repeats over the record cracks
verdicts and untruths the bells ringing out
once the song of that king of civil rights now forgotten
the bill players kiss each other with glee
prayers and confessionals are wasted
on all your wise misspent revolutions
wafers dipped into a book of wagers
profits and losses lost in tombs all black sealed
could questioning minds make poetry
from a death's throat opened to sing
fresh air to breathe
evolve some kind truth
for humanity’s last minute a saved dignity
and still the elephants march into the room
slowly holding in their adrenaline trunks the dry bones of doom
swinging low vibes slyly into our world view
in their silent hidden stoic hypocrisy
are we simpletons not alone
wanting some humanity
sanity dies on the detour neck of a road open
when we are down on our knees
praying for some brevity
shortness of time
waves wash over you and me
in that vacant parking lot we wait
when the war has dissolved
what remains of the forgotten beautiful dream
broken sutures misplaced in a corner
no longer no blue nor no green
some bad dream
shelved on parchment hidden
in cracked pots of clay forgotten in caves
some other world's dark gone wrong history
ignored,
ghost wars
crying out
caught and unheard
for some Light and some peace
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
he’s the cream of the fetid crop drop my dream off at the bank and cash it in sin grins demons demonstrate and deify stratified simpletons who caress videos with pornographic poverty mediocrity meditates on mushroom clouds stalking world peace foreclosed homes stripped fixed and sold to the highest bidder the inane riddle chuckles in every direction rock-stars teenage cop cars crowd the camera-addled peasant lanes fire pistons plug the hole first down and ten yards to go score and win next season begin again push push push once more beyond the wall hear the women call they want you with a painted smile to finish the last cracked concrete mile denial of the loss sets in as he gets ahead of you and there’s nothing you can do except sit at home and stew over the fences you fell through
We peep through grated beams in the dark confines,
Kept in chains by the tyranny of audacious jailers,
unending cynosure of profligates and imposters:
ruining the destinies of million wearied sufferers.
criminals fit for the gallows,
morons from the days of the colony.
dictators in military attires.
and simpletons kept in power for temporary ease.
our heirloom forced from us by old monsters.
cabals of criminals, greedy goons, men untutored in reputation.
Felons and rapscallion from the military barracks,
too old for modern ideas.
we are burdened along by colonial tyranny,
in a country where destinies are suspended in the gale,
and youths are forced into their own crimes of stealing.
we could not speak our sentiment freely.
we are fettered and riveted by their guns.
The sword above us, tyranny of archaic mind.
dreamy theorist acting as lords over multitudes of docile lots.
men made to cringe and fawn bowing and stooping to the
threatening of their guns.
They armed assassins and sufferers alike,
paid a trifling sum from the proceeds of corruption,
to keep the masses away from them as old baron loot the treasury,
this open prison of fancied freedom,
where marauders employed by the states with a gun to kill,
trans versing the south with AK47/.
terrorist renamed bandits by religious sympathizers.
from the porous borders of North,
comradely of Fanatics and bigots of the sword sect.
Clandestinely overrunning the land.
Freedom is a crime to fools.
those who dares becomes enemy of states.
assaulted by “operation python” dance.
or raided by Lawless DSS.
This is but a Jihad disguised as government.
The road is a trap of death,
we sleep as watchers waiting for the sword.
we starve amidst multitudinous resources,
they Lend to keep us in Bondage.
The crude in the south.
and all the resources are carted away to the North
to pay terrorist.
A state crimes condoned.
we groan,
we dare not speak as their armed assassin are
ready to silence the Voice of Truth.
one more Truth for the Jailer from the North.
My stint is to constrict,
Like a serpent on the offence.
Twisting and squeezing,
My pulchritudinous polka dots.
Whether my complexion burns like fire
Or freezes like ice
My chassis and tenuity hold true.
Versatility makes my copies
As I'm prerequisite to all.
Children abhor me,
Corpulent simpletons do likewise.
Prestigious parliament parade me
As I'm a sign of social standing.
Oh how very marvellous then. Synchronised shopping in a ship stream. Level out no lever in a gale. And swarm to sale rails like oversized tanks on waves of euphoric energy excursions. When waving rattles around dressed in a dressing gown or a kimono be wise to put on the correct footwear to adhere to the fashion ignited by the carpet stench. For it is never to be wiped nor adjusted the sofa of steam. Stagnant can then. Fortresses of dressed up closets clamouring for fetish funds to enlighten the brain of benign baked branches. But stem no frozen celery soup in a tight fitting dress. Discos are for dangerous driving doughs. And dough is a dough and a dough means to shape shift and spin into an ever decreasing pressurized paste. Generally speaking a display of distinguished discussion is merely an offsetting of informational ink. Dot then. And forms fake fingers. What is that? A misplaced misprint of an error in a mother tongue. How can that be? Why, one should ask the aisle in the supermarket for they are often very very wise. Simplistic simpletons seek spending some. And the others give give give. And all whirl around in circles endlessly. Round and around. Frighten not a ten inch flea on an amusement park. And please take care when buttering bread for bread can be quite fragile and sensitive to the smears. Thanks very much then. And give a bow to a cup. Hahaha missionary muscle of mussels and rice. Hahahaha melancholic melon moving moodily. Hahaha breast of butter. Culinary cylinder coming. Good good good. Now bake. Great. Xxxxx kitchenette z. This is the p y q reporting on the appropriate discussion for an atomised ant in an apron. Z.
Nestled up on the bathroom floor. She’s hysterical.
The cold tiles lower her body temperature
heated from the constant rush of tears and hyperventilating
The door is locked. She’s safe...for now
She whales to him
“Why does nobody want us? why baby, why?’
He doesn't answer, all he does is hold onto her. A grip of life.
Many decades, simpletons have tried to understand this bond.
But all fail.
He is what she is weak for. He is her achilles.
She begins to apologize
“I’m sorry I’m not strong enough for the both of us sweetheart.”
She is ashamed of herself as she pathetically whimpers on the ground.
It’s supposed to be her choice, but her conniving owners over power them
She is like the goddess Thetis, because sadly,
she knows the death of Achilles is inevitable